The day when tear ducts dry,
old world would have sailed,
built new life, no want to die,
for heart would not have failed,
yet today, when rivers weep,
we cry with all the feeling,
for in strength, the rough we keep,
as striving is appealing,
then tomorrow’s shaky hand,
makes perplex-ed worry,
for writ chance rotas on the land,
could say again, we’re sorry,
but, if our dream’s made real,
what are we to do?
For there will be no need to heal,
no purpose, to pursue.